After the surgery the nurses give me four days of solicitous care. Round the clock, with patience and forbearance, they combat pain and discomfort. The sleepy intestines wake up in fits and starts, having been doused from one end with drugs that induce queeziness, from the other with drugs that suppress it. My stomach muscles are as sore as ever and there seems to be a disconnect between my brain and leg muscles. Remember those experiments – amputated frogs’ legs strung up to wires and zapped with electricity. Lo and behold they still twitched – with no brain attached. I could use a little zap right now to get things working properly. Regardless, the surgeon checks my wound again and says I can go home the following day. It’s good news, though I feel glass fragile. I’m about to leave under the weight of a staggering number of presents and flowers, wondering if he will stop by to bid me farewell, when I hear someone charging down the hallway.
“Take it easy. It will take you about 6 weeks to regain your stamina. Eat whatever you want to. We’ll contact you after I hear from the pathologist and call you for a follow up appointment.” He gives me a big hug and is gone, on to the next conquest.
I believe in him. I believe that he routed out all those virulent papillary serous cells and I will embark on life again.